Page 28 of Pucked Up

The pile of split wood grew steadily between us. Noah had found his rhythm. Each swing was fluid and purposeful, with no hesitation in his movements. He paused, wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm, and turned to look at me over his shoulder.

"You gonna keep watching or tell me what I'm doing wrong?" A half-smile played at the corner of his mouth.

"You're dropping your left shoulder," I said, voice steady despite the heat crawling up my neck. "Throws off your aim."

He straightened and squared his stance. "Like this?"

"Better, but your grip is still off."

"Show me. One more time."

His eyes dared me to step back and rebuild the walls between us. I couldn't.

"Fine." I positioned myself beside him, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched. "Watch."

I split a log clean down the middle with one powerful stroke, the crack of splitting wood sharp in the winter air. Set up another. Split it just as cleanly. A third. My movements were precise and controlled—the opposite of the chaos churning inside me.

Noah's eyes tracked every motion, hunger evident in his gaze.

"Your turn," I said, offering the axe. Our fingers brushed in the exchange. Neither of us flinched this time.

He mimicked my stance perfectly—feet planted, shoulders squared, grip sure. Swung. The log split with a satisfying crack, falling away in two even halves.

"Better?" He looked up, seeking confirmation.

I nodded, something like pride mingling with the unease in my chest. "Much."

He set up another log. Raised the axe. I caught his wrist before he could swing.

"Enough. You've got it."

"What if I want more practice?"

I released his wrist and stepped back while taking the axe from his unresisting hands.

"Save some for tomorrow." I split one final log with a force that sent splinters flying in all directions. It drove the blade deep into the chopping block, where it stood quivering. "We've done enough damage for one day."

His eyes darkened at that, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of gray remained. "Have we?"

"Yeah," I managed finally. "We have."

I turned away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. Unable to face what I might do if I kept looking.

"For now," I added quietly. I wasn't sure I wanted him to hear it since I wasn't sure I meant it.

When I glanced back, the slight smile on his face told me he'd heard. And understood.

The cabin welcomed us back with artificial warmth—the furnace pumping heated air through vents that creaked and rattled like old bones. Inside, the contrast made our overheated bodies feel even warmer. Steam rose from my skin as I peeled off my thermal.

Noah watched from the doorway, his gaze moving across my shoulders and down my spine. I didn't turn around. Didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing my reaction.

"You can shower first," I offered. "Should be enough hot water now that the power's back."

"Thanks." His boots thudded against the floor as he removed them. Then, his footsteps moved toward the window instead of the bathroom.

I turned to find him sliding the window open a few inches. Cold air rushed in, colliding with the overheated atmosphere of the room. The contrast created visible vapor plumes that rose from our bodies—like spirits escaping, seeking freedom.

"Too hot in here," he explained. His fingers lingered on the windowsill, tracing patterns in the condensation that had formed there.

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